Failure
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Ishigaki doesn't look up until he's inside, has taken a step in and let the flap fall behind him before he takes in the hunch of Midosuji's skeletal shoulders, the gloves wrapping his fingers and the mask closing off his mouth, and then it's too late to pretend he was going elsewhere." Ishigaki intends to thank Midosuji and does more than he planned.


Ishigaki blames post-race exhaustion.

He intended to offer thanks to Midosuji, possibly a careful extension of sympathy if he can figure out a way to present that in a way that the other will accept. He can still feel the tension at the back of his jersey, the grab that saved him from the road-burn pain of a proper crash, the rush of shocked affection in his veins to counter the blank distance in Midosuji's dark eyes. He's been warmed by that all day, even when he heard the results from the finish line, even when the third place on the winner's podium was empty, even when the chill of concern started to form into the certainty of worry. But his unformed fear for Midosuji's mental state is just that, vague and soft at the edges, and when he pushes the tent flap aside and steps in he's thinking of his own selfish pleasure at being saved, thinking to offer thanks with enough sincerity that even Midosuji will understand him. He doesn't look up until he's inside, has taken a step in and let the flap fall behind him before he takes in the hunch of Midosuji's skeletal shoulders, the gloves wrapping his fingers and the mask closing off his mouth, and then it's too late to pretend he was going elsewhere.

For a minute he's stalled, frozen as he takes in the visual, the fact that Midosuji hasn't looked at him, all the tiny tells that coalesce to tell him something is very, _very_ wrong, that Midosuji is doing worse than Ishigaki has ever seen him. The first burst of adrenaline tells him to avoid this scenario, to turn and leave, that Midosuji won't stop him and won't care about the awkward situation. But the remembered pressure on the back of his jersey says that Midosuji _will_ care, even if he never says anything, that just because he won't feel the social awkwardness doesn't mean he won't be hurt by the abandonment.

Ishigaki takes a step forward. "Midosuji-kun?"

There's no response. The other doesn't shift his shoulders, doesn't lift his head. He might as well be deaf, doesn't react even when Ishigaki comes close enough to touch him and drops to a knee. This close he can see the tiny motion of the mask over Midosuji's mouth, the flutter of the cover as he breathes. It's easier to watch that than the endless darkness in the other's eyes, the out-of-focus shadows as if sight itself is too much of an effort.

"Midosuji-kun." Instinct brings Ishigaki's fingers up, reaching for Midosuji's wrist before he thinks. The other's skin is chill under his fingertips, absent even the spark of a flinch away that would normally be there, and Midosuji keeps moving, idly tugging at the tassel on a pillow without so much as turning his head. "Look at me."

Midosuji doesn't speak, doesn't blink, just slowly turns his head to fix the emptiness behind his eyes ostensibly on Ishigaki's face. His fingers are still moving, continuing their rhythmic tugging without the assistance of his gaze, but he's not pulling away from Ishigaki's hold. It's not really a positive - Ishigaki can tell the difference between active assent and indifference - but Midosuji's skin is getting a little warmer, even if it's just borrowed from the other's touch, so Ishigaki doesn't let go.

He wants to ask if Midosuji is okay. Concern is foremost in his mind, concern and spreading fear at the lack of response. Midosuji is perfect still except for the mechanical drag of his gloved fingertips over the tassel, his eyes utterly blank. Ishigaki wouldn't believe he's alive if not for the shift of the mask, proof of his breathing even if he can't see his lips.

"Thank you," he finally says past lips gone stiff with cold panic. His voice swings high, skidding towards a break, and he has to pause and wet his lips, swallow the knot from his throat before he speaks again. "Midosuji-kun. For saving me."

There's no response. No blink, no insult, no rejection in word or gaze or motion. Ishigaki can feel his eyes going hot with tears and that's making it worse, because Midosuji _ought_ to be recoiling from his emotion, hissing and jerking away and shoving Ishigaki back with the revulsion he usually shows. But he's not, there's just the darkness in his eyes like he's staring inward, like all his vicious rejection is twisting in around on himself. Ishigaki doesn't know how to warm away the blank cold in Midosuji's expression, isn't sure what to _do_ with a Midosuji that looks so utterly lost, because he might be the captain in name but in practice it has been so _easy_ to follow the new genius. Ishigaki has known something is broken in Midosuji - he didn't have to be a genius himself to see that much - but he has never seen the edges of it before, hasn't seen the glass-sharp shards under the doll-like stillness of Midosuji's face.

"Midosuji," he says again, deliberately dropping the honorific just to see if that will strike the sparks he wants. Desperation is coiling under his skin, words falling flat before he can frame them, all his hypothetical sincerity collapsing under the unreceptive stillness in Midosuji's face. There's just that rhythmic motion of fingers, the catch of breathing even Midosuji can't do without. Ishigaki's gaze slides away from the uncomfortable inhumanity of the other's eyes to land on the mask, even if the warmth of the other's breathing is being held away by the fabric itself.

He isn't sure why exactly he moves. His head is ringing, his thoughts pulling away from the present discomfort of his body in self-defense, as if to keep him safe by distancing himself from the cold sweat of panic on his skin and the thudding anxiety of his heart. It's almost like he's watching himself lean in, more curious than afraid by the time his lips touch against thin fabric to fit the mask flat between Midosuji's mouth and his own.

He can feel the catch of an inhale stalled by the space of his own mouth, Midosuji's lips surprisingly soft even through the strange texture between them. Ishigaki shuts his eyes without thinking, his focus drawing in so close around his mouth that his hold on Midosuji's wrist goes slack with inattention. They stay like that for a moment, Ishigaki's mouth going faintly warm with what of Midosuji's breath is making it to his skin, but Midosuji doesn't move at all, just keeps trying to breathe through his mouth until Ishigaki finally pulls away. He's starting to flush with self-consciousness, his cheeks borrowing all the heat Midosuji's skin lacks, but Midosuji just looks away, drops his chin so his eyes are once again not-focused on the threads under his fingers. Ishigaki lets his hold go, then, shuffles back over the floor until he's out of range of physical contact. He can tell when he's failed without being told.

He doesn't leave, though, and Midosuji doesn't tell him to. It's not a victory any more than being ignored ever is. But Ishigaki is good at sacrificing his pride for the sake of his school, for the sake of his team. Sacrificing it for Midosuji himself makes more sense than anything else he's done recently.


End file.
